Snippets
by Topsy
Summary: Olivia and Elliot separately think about their relationship.


Title: Snippets  
Author: Topsy  
Rating: K+  
Summary: You look so happy, and it's nice for me to look at it and pretend that you were happy at that moment because of me.  
Author's Note: Thanks to Jess and Kel for beta-ing.  
Disclaimer: Our beloved SVU detectives belong to Dick Wolf, the lucky bastard. 

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March 30-31, 2005

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I have a picture of the two of us at one of the precinct Christmas parties that they throw every year. We're apparently carrying on a conversation, about what I can't even remember, but we're both smiling at each other, and not paying any attention to Munch who was fooling around with some new camera he bought himself for Hanukkah. He took the picture, and the flash startled us from our conversation for a few moments. We joked around, and teased him about it. Five minutes later, I had completely forgotten he'd taken the picture. A few days later, he gave me a slightly belated Christmas present: a frame with the picture of us in it.

I love how you look in it; it's my favorite picture of you. Not that I've seen many pictures of you, since I don't go snooping through your family photo albums, but of those I have seen, this one is my favorite. You look so happy, and it's nice for me to look at it and pretend that you were happy at that moment because of me. It's good to look back and remember that, in the past, you were happy, even if you aren't anymore. This picture makes me wish I could fix that, fix you. I want to take your pain away.

I love your face. It's just always been such a comfort to me. When I'm upset, when I need someone to talk to, I just have to look at you. One look at your deep, understanding blue eyes and a little piece of me is righted again. I can't stare at you for very long without the both of us growing uncomfortable, but I memorize every glimpse I get of your face, and each time I take away another little piece of the puzzle just to put it back together in my mind. I carry it with me everywhere I go. And it's always changing, always evolving. It seems as if every time I look at you, there's a new worry line or a new look of exhaustion in your eyes. It only makes me love your puzzle even more.

I think Munch knows. I hate that about him; that he's so inquisitive. He sees everything. I guess it comes from his vast experience with conspiracies and looking for things that aren't there; only sometimes he does find things, like the love I feel for you. Actually, I just know he knows, he's Munch, there's no way he hasn't figured it out. I wonder if he knows anything else, like how you feel about me.

I shake my head, shaking those thoughts away. You're separated, not divorced. You're miserable without her. I couldn't even begin to compete with that, with her, the mother of your children. You deserve better, anyway. I would never make you happy, simply because I don't know how. I'm a failure at relationships, but I don't think that surprises anyone. How could it? I've got nothing to go by and I sure as hell don't let people in. Not even you.

There are scraps of me spread all over the place, little snippets I've given to people over the years. But there isn't a place where all of those scraps are gathered up, bound into one big book, a journal of my thoughts for others to read, except in my mind. I don't let people in there. You've gotten closer than anyone ever has, but I still don't let you see all of my pages. There are too many secrets, too many bad things that I don't even want to relive long enough to tell you. Not that I want to tell you. Not really.

You know enough about me, enough to understand why I do this job, why I have to. I don't need you to know the details. I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I don't need your sympathy or your pity. I couldn't stand it coming from you. I would hate for your blue eyes to touch me and be filled with those emotions, because I don't need or want you to coddle me and make me better. I'm not one of your children.

And though I don't want your pity, sometimes I wish I had your love. I have your respect, your friendship, and I have to make the most of that. Most days I can. But on days like these, when I sit and stare at your smile, how it lights up your eyes and crinkles the skin around them; I wonder what it would be like to be wrapped up in your strong, loving arms. I wonder what that would really feel like, to bury my face against your shoulder and breathe deeply, to try and memorize your smell. I wonder what it would be like to kiss you, how your lips would feel on mine. The curiosity nearly kills me sometimes. I know you'd be intense about it, just like everything else in your life, and sometimes I am so desperate to be on the other side of that intensity that I have to hold myself back from jumping you on the job.

I let out a little sigh and trace your face with my fingertips, wishing you were with me now. But I know that even if you were, we'd still be miles apart, like we have been for months.

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I sit in my new apartment across town, hating every inch of it. The four walls surrounding me are closing in and I feel like I can't breathe. I hate this place and its paint-chipped ceiling. Part of me wants to reconcile with Kathy just so I can get back into my warm, loving home.

But I guess it's not so loving anymore. Kathy won't say much to me, not that I even care that much. I love her, I do. I always will. But she's been dragging me through the dirt these past few months and I can't take much more of it. I can't do anything right, so she just pulls further away from me, which doesn't solve anything. It only makes me want to break away from her. How are we supposed to salvage our marriage if she won't even talk to me?

I guess I don't blame her, though. I haven't been there for her for years now. I don't know how to do this anymore, not with her. I can't bring the nightmares of work into my life at home with her and our children. I won't do it. She knows I won't, so she blames you.

Oh, I'd never tell you that, not in a million years, but apparently that's how Kathy feels. I'm not sure why she thinks you've got control over our crazy hours at work, but she does. She accused me of having an affair with you. I argued with her, told her it wasn't true, but it didn't really matter. She didn't care. And I know she's right. Even though we've never done anything inappropriate, even though I've never cheated on my wife and would never dream of it, I have been unfaithful. Because I love you.

I have no idea when it went from partner to best friend to wanting more, but it did. I don't even really know when I realized it. It was sometime after the separation, sometime after Kathy accused of me sleeping with you. I realized that Kathy was partially right, and I pushed you away. I'm so sorry for doing that to you. I never meant to hurt you, but I had to separate myself from you, pull away to become my own person. I'm so used to being a half of something; a half of a marriage, a half of a partnership, and I'd forgotten who it is to just be me. But I shouldn't have pushed you away, especially since I know you just wanted to be there for me through all of this.

I walk to the bookshelf and pull out a photo album, specifically looking for a certain picture. Munch took a picture of us at a Christmas party one year, and he gave it to me in a nice silver frame. I knew that if I took it home Kathy would have thrown another fit. I wanted to put it on my desk, but I felt uncomfortable about that, because it made everything seem so personal, so on display. Not our partnership, but our relationship. So I took the picture out of the frame and hid it in an old photo album. I would put it back in the frame now, but I don't want my kids to get the wrong idea. Nobody knows I love you, except maybe Munch, and I don't plan on giving my kids any ideas, not yet, not unless I decide to do something about it.

I walk to the couch and sit down on it, propping my feet up on the coffee table as I open the dusty album in my lap. I skim through the pictures of my children quickly, smiling at all the memories, even as my heart twinges in pain. God, I miss them. But right now I don't want to focus on that or I'll slip into a depressive state of drinking. I already did that last night. I slide my fingers around the picture of us and bring it closer to my face with a grin. You're so pretty, especially when you smile. You don't do it nearly enough. I gently trace my fingers over the happy curve of your lips and I'm so grateful that I have this picture, this memory stamped into my mind. I'm glad I could make you smile, at least once upon a time.

I remember back when we first became partners, in the first year or two of our partnership, you smiled a lot more than you do now. I sometimes wonder why that is. I figure it's the job, because, after all, it brings everyone down eventually, makes us all bitter and jaded. I also wonder if it's because of your mother's death. It seems like after that you became an even bigger advocate for the victims. And then I always wonder if there is more; something else that happened that you didn't talk to me about, or wouldn't talk to me about. I wonder what that could be.

I think about my marriage a lot, even when I'm thinking of you. I love Kathy, but I don't think I love her the way I should anymore. I don't know exactly what's going to happen there, but I'm fairly sure there's no reconciliation in our future. And I'm starting to believe I love you the way I should love her. But who's to say you'd even want to be with me, anyhow?

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Finished.


End file.
